


Dépaysement!

by inabsolutes



Series: Lost in Translation [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Mental Anguish, Multi, Other, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Where’s My Kalos Sequel Game Freak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-03-11 13:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsolutes/pseuds/inabsolutes
Summary: (n.) the feeling of disorientation and bewilderment one might feel upon being in a totally foreign environment, which may occur as a change of mental state or as a result of any major life event.A retelling in parts, of how a adrift young woman found herself brought into the entirely dizzying world of the tortured billionaire philanthropist and Team Flare Leader extraordinaire, Lysandre.





	1. The Curse of the Standard

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! 
> 
> A couple things of note: 
> 
> Depaysement! takes place in the same universe that Backpfeifengesicht takes place in. (This story has been brewing in my head ever since I finished X and Y a couple years ago, but I felt like Backpfeifengesicht finally gave me an “in”, so to speak, so here we are.)
> 
> You, the reader, take the female player character’s place in the story. You’re aged up to late teens-early twenties, and you just moved to Kalos from Unova. The rest you’ll have to read to find out. :) 
> 
> This story is more explicit than Backpfeifengesicht when it comes to potentially triggering/troubling subject matter, so consider this a warning in advance. 
> 
> Also— I am well aware that Lysandre is a villain. I won’t be hand-wringing or waving away his various faults, but instead ask you to consider an alternate interpretation of his character. If you’ve got that, then let’s get ready to Poké Rumble!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone can walk on water, but only if it freezes.

     Penciling in her tiny notebook, a young woman writes silently on the train arriving from Kiloude City, on the Lumiose Station line. As the scenery rushes past your window, the ever-so-slight rumble of the train punctuates your thoughts. Your HoloCaster lies on the seat to your left; its display cracked.

     The fuzzy hologram of your mother’s receptionist comes up again on the device. You remember her severe wine-red lipstick and slick-straight hair.  “Remember, your _maman_ has an appointment with her physical therapist. Make sure she comes in for her checkup, _quoi...?_ You can call to reconfirm the appointment at this number...”

    The video message ends, and you look down at the scrawl that you’ve been writing. Your brow furrows—it’s not much to speak of. 

     Hesitantly, you begin, “Hi, I’d like to make an appointment with _Monsieur_   Legrand... for my mom, I know it’s been a long time. This is her daughter speaking...”

     You strike it out, and shift uncomfortably on the faux-leather seat.

      _No, that’s not quite right._

Furrowing your brow, you think:

      _It’s Grace, isn’t it?_ _She would want the therapist to call her Grace..._

     Clearing your throat, you sit up straight in your chair, and practice the words to yourself.

     “Hi! My name is...” Balancing your HoloCaster on your lap, you try on a fakey, saccharinely-sweet voice. “I’m calling about Grace? I know she’s been putting off her physical therapy appointments for a while, I’ve been really trying to get her to go, but...”

     But the whole thing just sounds like a bunch of excuses.

      _No, that’s STILL not right—_

     Frustrated, you crumple up the journal page into a wad of paper. This is stupid. And you’re stupid. Why can’t you just call the physical therapist normally like everyone else?

     Sighing, you then throw your head back against the headrest of the chair, and rest your tired eyes on the television in front of your seat. Your eyes trace the English translation of the words printed on the label beneath the TV screen.

      _The televisions in this train are brought to you courtesy of generous donations from Lysandre Labs:_ _making the lives of Kalos citizens richer, fuller, and more convenient. We hope you will enjoy the services these devices provide._

     Of course they’re red. Of course.

     Diverting your eyes from the label, you look up at the television screen. The screen display is glossy—the device is undoubtably new. On the lower two thirds of the screen, the chyron below the newscaster reads:

     A New Alolan Champion?!

     Against what seems to be a mountainous backdrop, snow falls behind the newscaster, dusting her sleek ponytail with white dust. She says: “We come to you live from Alola’s very own Pokemon League.” The woman continues, “In other news, the Alolan Championship title has been transferred to Pokémon Trainer Gladion after the previous Champion’s unexpected loss... Quite a turn of events!”

     The way she speaks on the young woman on the television, strikes you as odd—it’s a lilting, bemused tone, more fitting of some novelty.

    And indeed, the young woman‘s appearance is a bit odd— she smiles painfully from behind the screen, there’s a faraway gaze in her eyes. One of her arms hangs limp at her side, wrapped tight with gauze and tape. 

     The group of chattering (different word) older people sitting in the booth across from you now draw your attention.

     “What a shame...” they tut-tut-tut, a cacophonous exchange of voices. “That boy doesn’t deserve the honor....”

     Even though you _should_ be minding your own business, you can’t help but listen in on their conversation. Your eyes dart over briefly: a group of older people, one man and two women, their posture’s relaxed and unhurried. Their stylish trench-coats are plain, dyed in muted colors— but the fabric’s made out of a thick high-quality wool, and the pigment, intense.

     “It’s a disgrace. They’ve debased the entire tradition of Pokémon Leagues across the continent.” The Baroness sighs. “But then again, Unova has hardly set a high standard...”

     “I concur— common decency is everything but lost these days...” With a shake of his head, the Gentleman in the group concurs. He then says: “That title should have the distinction of only belonging to dignified people. You know, people with a bit of class.”

     Something slippery and vile writhes, twists in your stomach.

      _Don’t you see?_

     He takes another puff from his wood-grain pipe. It’s a no smoking car. “Hmph— he’ll lose his title within the month.”

     The Baroness laughs: “And what kind of Champion could she have been if she lost her title to some worthless thug? She’s no good.”

      _The world is just too vast... and too full of fools that you cannot save through your hard work alone._

     And yet...

     Her gracious smile may never leave you.

    _Ding-dong!_

     Over the PA, the robotic, cheery chirp of the electronic conductor announces your arrival.

      _Bienvenue dans La Ville des Lumières! S'il vous plaît regarder votre étape lorsque vous quittez la plate-forme du train._

     However, as the doors of the train slide open, you find yourself thinking that you haven’t got much class yourself, but nevertheless had this title thrust upon you.

     But glancing back at the television, you notice... despite her sad-happy smile she doesn’t look defeated, or fragile.

     Why is that, _mademoiselle?_

     Do you... have a ticket to tomorrow?

     Knocking you out of your thoughts, the school of passenger fish moves you along, and you follow in the same current with the rest of the people out of the train. The school then disperses in the central hub of the station.

     Even in Lumiose Station, signs of the city’s life are everywhere. Billboards of all sorts surround you, advertising many sorts of commodities, from cosmetics and this season’s most trendy apparel, to fashionable Lumiose restaurants. As you briskly walk— a billboard with the bold letters, _Bienvenue dans Lumiose City!_ casts its shadow on you. The famous movie actress, Diantha’s face is splashed across its entire length. Her eyes are framed by perfectly lush, thick lashes, her mouth formed into a glamorous, full-lipped pout. Her translucent skin is like that of a porcelain doll.

     You pull the sleeves of your jacket over your calloused palms.

     Unaware of just how long you had been standing spaced out in the station, you then notice a youngster and his mother point you out in the crowd. You blink.

     A horrid little voice whispers in your ear:

      _They’re staring at you because they know what you’ve done._

     Rushing over to you, and almost tripping over his two feet, the young boy pants furiously. 

     “You’re the...”

     The knot in your stomach is pulled taut. 

     “...Champion, aren’t you?!” he cheers, however the child-like squeak in his voice gives away his lack of breath. “You saved the world!!”

      _Of course._ A smile, just as razor-thin as the tightrope you tread, spreads across your face.

     “Yes, I did.” you say, and kneel down to look into the young boy’s eyes.

     “Wow...” he gasps. After taking a period to rummage through his dirt-caked knapsack, the young boy shoves a dog-eared notebook into your chest, and blurts out: “C-could you sign this?!”

     You blink. Sheepishly, his mother sighs apologetically.

     “I’m sorry about my son...” she says, pulling her son back by the fabric of his shirt, a feeble attempt to rein him in. “We are just tourists from Johto, you see, and it’s our first time seeing a Champion in person....”

     A genuine smile spreads across his face, revealing the gaps in his teeth. Your heart bottoms out.

      _Why can’t you just let go of this foolishness and just accept your lot in life?_  
  
     Even as this feeling of unhappiness spreads, that young woman’s smile does not falter.

     “I’d be happy to,” you say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Who should I make this out to?”

     After exchanging barely concealed gleeful looks with his mother, the young boy exclaims, “Oh, its Youngster Joey....”

     Quickly scrawling your signature on the yellowed pages of the book, you punctuate it with with the firm click of a pen, and wave the two of them off.

     As the first whistle signals the next train’s departure, you hear a man call your name. The deep, sonorous voice is distinctive, and the hair on your arms stands up on end.

      _Not again. Please._

“How could you leave me behind? Why did you abandon me?”

    You increase your brisk pace. 

    It now takes on a strangled tone. “I thought _you_ would have understood the way I think and feel!”

    The sound of your footsteps ring hollow on the cold lanoleum of the floor. 

“The only thing I ask of you now to is accept my dreams!”

_Don’t look, don’t look—_

     “Please, I beg you to listen,” he shouts now. “I would not ask for anything else if you were to—“

     You pause; as you lurch forward, your breath hitches in your throat. 

    _“Come back to me.”_

      His words irresistible, your head darts behind you. Looking back at the train preparing to depart from the Lumiose Station platform, you rub your shoulders. A distinct chill washes over you as the conductor waves his cap, looking out for any stray passengers. 

     The train then rushes past, the shadowed, darkened figure of a man calls out to you again from the opposite platform; you immediately regret making that impulsive decision to turn back. But it’s too late, your eyes are hopelessly fixated on his figure. The crimson red of his coat’s fur-lined collar frames his face, his achingly handsome face is unbearable to gaze upon. But you can’t, won’t acknowledge him. If you do, you’ll—

     Die. And die. And die.

     Lysandre shouts your name, once, twice. His baritone rises above the screaming whistle of the train.

    _“Ma cendrillon!”_

     Under the city’s facade of lights, you squeeze your eyes closed. Clenching your papery, scarred hands, you then whisper to yourself:

      _Ambrette Town. Anistar City. Aquacorde Town. Camphrier Town. Couriway Town. Cyllage City. Dendemille Town—_

     After running through the gamut of city names, still willing that apparition to disappear, you come to the letter L.

      _Laverre City. Lumiose City. Ly..._

     Lysandre.

     Lysandre.

     Lysandre.

     Your heart pounds in your chest, and for one moment, you swore you could feel the warmth of his breath on your shoulder. As if saying the words would breathe him into reality.

     But when you open your eyes, nobody’s there— it’s just an illusion generated by the chintzy veneer of the city’s spotlights.

     Coming back to your senses, you pick up your belongings, and hoist your bag over your shoulder.

     No matter what happens in the City of Light, the show must go on.

     Whilst briskly walking out of the station, you briefly look up at Diantha’s face, and tightly shut your eyes.

     The show must go on.

 

* * *

 

     No matter the genre, every show must have a beginning, so you suppose your farce of a story must have its own.

     You’re Grace the Rhyhorn Racer’s daughter, so of course you’re good at everything, and everyone loves you.

     Or not. Something can be the truth, and not at the same time. 

     One memory in particular stands out to you— the day you begin your journey in Vaniville Town, you recall your mother, Grace, downstairs, staring outside the kitchen window. The light catches in her eyes, and she squints, but she does not turn away. As if she were a little bird that ached to fly away at any moment. 

     You pretend not to have seen her. She has that look too often nowadays.

     Yawning to announce your presence,  you say, “Good morning, Mom...”

     Grace whips her head back and grins too broadly. “All rested up from the move?” she asks. You nod, still groggy and exhausted from a fitful sleep. You know the act’s not convincing.

     “Oh, baby...! You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed!” she laughs, gesturing to your wrinkled, baggy pj’s. “Go take a look at yourself in the mirror, and change out of your pajamas.”

     Honestly, you would have much rather returned to bed yourself, but your mother’s previously wistful expression dissuades you from the thought. 

     Because once upon a time, you had feared she would never return. Half a year ago, whilst competing in a Rhyhorn race in your home region of Unova, your mother had lost her balance and become injured. The doctors had told her that she ‘needed to get rest, she wasn’t getting any younger, and had to protect herself’. Because of this, Grace had taken an impromptu hiatus from riding her Pokémon. This, unfortunately, meant that, in addition to being constantly strapped for money, your mother was mostly confined to your tiny apartment in Unova. 

    Upstairs, whilst staring into the mirror, you pinch your cheeks, and rummage through your things for your suitcase. It was a little nicer to have the extra room to yourself. Unova was too full of loud people, and factories that made the sky listless and clouded.

    Getting dressed, as you slip on your thin clothes, you can’t help but wrinkle your nose. The clothes were okay— their material isn’t fancy, or of especially high quality, but your mother had tried the best she could to get the nicest clothes she could with the limited income she had, and that was enough for you. She only wore sweatpants and loose tank-tops nowadays, anyways.

    You can’t help but feel nervous at the thought of going outside. What if the people in town _judged_ you...? Just like your friends back home?

    You shake your head willfully. Why were you so preoccupied with your friends from Unova, anyway? Ever since they had learned of your mother’s accident, your so-called friends had thrown out a few paltry words of sympathy and promptly ditched you.    

_Just stop it. Things’ll be different here, just you wait and see!_

     Cautiously walking down the stairs, you stop in front of your mother. Her quick eyes dart up and down as Grace inspects your outfit, and she clucks approvingly. 

     “Seeing as you’re all ready, why don’t you step out and say hi to the neighbors?” your mother asks, stirring  the herbal tea in her mug absentmindedly. It’s chamomile and sage, a remedy for weak bones and joints.

     You look down, kick the toe of your second-hand shoes into the floor. You don’t really want to.

     She heaves a long sigh. “Let’s both try our best, okay?” Looking outside, your mother says, “I know this will be really tough on you... You left all of your friends in Unova, didn’t you?”

     Not like they were much of your friends. Not one had said so much of a goodbye or farewell to you before you had left. 

     But... your mother’s pleading expression is more than enough to convince you to go outside. “Okay.”

     Relieved, she briefly closes her eyes, then pecks you on the cheek. “That’s my baby.”

     After extracting a few promises from your mother to take care of herself, taking a breath, you open the door. You don’t expect your neighbors to be any different from your “friends” in Unova.

    The sun shines on your face, and you’re greeted by a boy and a girl. They wait only a few paces outside your door—the girl, tawny skinned and slight, the boy taller and more pale. They’re both no older than 16 years old. You feel oddly self-conscious.

    The younger girl’s mouth forms a small o— clearly taken aback by your appearance. You hoped that your clothing  didn’t look too shabby.

    “Wait...” The girl’s head cocks curiously to one side. “Calem, she’s... pretty old! Did Professor Sycamore send us the right address?”

     The young man whispers furtively, “I’m pretty sure he did, I saw him printing it out from his email this morning.”

    “What if he was half-asleep, Calem?!” she asks him now, her voice raising to a panicked high-pitch. _“Duh!”_

     Caleb (?) retorts, “Shauna, he had two shots of _espresso_ in his coffee—“

     You clear your throat, trying to suppress your laughter. “I’m sorry, who... are you?”

     “Oh! We’ve come to get you!” the younger girl, Shauna, laughs. Her curly brown hair is tied up in elaborate pigtails, giving off a girlish, youthful vibe. “ _Right,_ Calem?”

     The young man smiles at you, albeit a bit nervously. “He has a task for five kids, including all of us,” the boy Calem explains. “It’s very important, so he sent us here to pick you up personally.”

    Shauna giggles, clear and high, like a balloon rising into the sky. “We’ll be getting a Pokémon!”

     A... Pokémon?

     You remember the bright smile on your mother’s face as she would blaze down the racetrack on top of her Rhyhorn, and you ball up your fists unconsciously. A Pokémon. A Pokémon was full of hope. A Pokémon of your very own would definitely bring a smile to your mother’s face.

     After saying that they would wait for you in the next town over, they depart. You notice they hadn’t spared a moment to ask you if you were ready to go.

     Unfortunately, the more things change; the more they stay the same.

     

* * *

 

     However, your meeting with your neighbors does much to change your perception of them— they aren’t anything like your so-called friends in Unova, the cold strangers who gave you funny looks if you asked them how their day was, or expressed anything akin to consideration for their well-being. They even offered to give you _a nickname._ No one back home had done that—instead, sometimes, they had called you _Grace’s daughter_ in lieu of your actual name. 

     That’s what you had thought at first, at least.

     After your hard-won Pokémon battle in Professor Sycamore’s laboratory, Calem walks over to you. “That was some battle! Didn’t you say your mom was Grace, the _famous_ Rhyhorn rider?”

     You hadn’t. Your heart drops into your stomach like lead.

     Shauna’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “No. Way.” 

     Giving her companion a firm (read: rough) nudge, she then gushes: “Oh my gosh, Calem! You never told me we’d be making friends with a _celebrity!”_

     The young man sputters, “Shauna, I-I didn’t know until she moved here—“

    “Wow, a celebrity, huh?!” Tierno gasps. “Do ya think you could give me pointers on my dancing?! Y’know, like celebrity dance moves? I bet it’d drive the crowds crazy!”

     “That’s very interesting,” the younger boy Trevor says, nodding his neatly-cut head of hair self-satisfactorily. “There must be much we can learn from you.”

    Feeling trapped,you shoot Professor Sycamore a look akin to a Fletchling confined in a metal cage.  _Please help me._

     “ _Allez,_ let’s not crowd the _mademoiselle_ here,” Professor Sycamore chuckles. Looking at him now, it is plain to see that the older man is attractive—his glossy brunette hair is coiffed ever-so-slightly, and his faint facial whiskers lent a sort of romantic sensibility to his unkemptness. You suppose that Sycamore must have many admirers. His alto laugh is a light, airy sound, like the tinkling of a bell. “She must be exhausted from the plane ride here.”  

    You, however, don’t miss the appraising look in his admiral-blue eyes. “But... I’m sure you’ll be riding circles around the rest of us in no time at all, ho-hoh!”

     You feel like screaming. Why did everyone expect so much from you and you hardly even knew them yet? Or vice-versa?

      _Stupid. Of course nothing would change here, either._

    As they continue chattering animatedly amongst themselves, your shoulders slump. How were you supposed to explain to them that you couldn’t Rhyhorn race...? Or the fact that your win against Professor Sycamore had not been as effortless as everyone has made it out to be?

      _Get it together. Just be who you’re supposed to be, and everything will be fine._

Professor Sycamore laughs warmly, and says, “I knew that I had picked out the right people for the task— and how!” He then smiles at you. “There is a certain _je ne sais quoi_  about _you,_ in particular!”

     You couldn’t say anything to him, much less the rest of your newfound friends. After all, it was quite ridiculous to admit that Grace, the famous Rhyhorn rider’s daughter, couldn’t Rhyhorn ride her way out of a paper bag, much less compete on a racetrack...

     “Sure.” You dip your head slightly in gratitude; your voice rings hollow in your ears. “I’ll do my best to not disappoint you.”

    Dutifully reading off the script laid out in front of you, the rest of the actors nod satisfactorily to this response, and begin discussing plans of where to go next in the city, or which gym to challenge next, or what to do next in your quest for Mega Evolution.

    As they laugh, you feel alone again.

    You had thought you could lay down roots here, in Kalos, unlike Unova, but you’re still adrift, alone again, spinning off into your own little world, misunderstood.

    Perhaps this is why he loved you. 

 

* * *

   

     ...There is a certain trick to digging a hole, you realize. If you lower your back just right, and bend your knees exactly so, the ache in your bones doesn’t hurt as much as it could. As much as it _could._

      _We must not cover up the old filth with the new,_  the specter of Lysandre reminds you as you shovel the dirt from the ruins of the ultimate weapon. You blink, and rub your eyes.

     Every evening, after running your various errands around the city, just as the sun sets in the horizon, you return to Geosenge Town with only one goal in mind. 

     To dig. Just dig.

     You sigh. The ground is muddy beneath your feet. Your Pokémon cry out— they’re getting exhausted. But you can’t stop. Won’t stop.

     Trying to distract yourself from the toil of digging, your thoughts fly to various places, finally resting on the evening you had first returned to Geosenge Town after your win at the Pokémon League.

     After looking all over town, you found your desired object resting underneath the burly forearm of a construction worker.

    The construction worker peered at you. “You want my shovel? Why?”

     You gestured to the gaping crater in the middle of the town. 

    “Why?” He peered at you curiously; you were an odd thing to him. “You wanna make the hole _deeper?”_

Your face turned red as a beet. You hadn’t expected to have to justify yourself for simply asking for a shovel.

     Letting out a hearty laugh, he then said: “There might have been just stones here before, but now this town has a big ol’ hole!” The construction worker leaned on his shovel. “Lots of people think the hole’s some real great tourist attraction...”

     “Sure, you can have my shovel. A bigger hole’ll probably bring more tourists!”

     You nodded gratefully and took the tool from him; it had a weighty heft to it.

     Wiping the sweat from your brow, you now tightly grip the shovel in your hands. Precariously balancing your weight on the weight on the object, you sigh, worn and spent.

     Just once more, if...

     ...if you could hear his voice again, his real voice, that would put you at ease.

     At the tail-end of every indent you make into the earth, you hope Lysandre will be there, waiting for you. 

     Your shovel makes contact with the dirt yet again.

     And you continue to dig your own grave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kalos Glossary of Terms
> 
> allez: come on
> 
> “Bienvenue dans...” : Welcome to...
> 
> “Bienvenue dans... train.” : Welcome to The City of Lights! Please watch your step when you leave the train platform.
> 
> cendrillon: lit. "little ashes". Cendrillon is an alternate spelling of the name of the fairy tale heroine, Cinderella.
> 
> ma: my
> 
> mademoiselle: a title or form of address used of or to an unmarried Kalos-speaking woman. 
> 
> maman: a colloquial word for "mom.”
> 
> monsieur: a title or form of address used of or to a Kalos-speaking man, corresponding to Mr. or sir.
> 
> je ne sais quoi: a certain something, an intangible quality that makes something distinctive or unique


	2. Underwater, I Did So Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was weighed down by heavy things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! It’s been a while since I updated this, huh? Sorry for the long wait, Real Life (tm) gets in the way sometimes!
> 
> Thanks for all your support and comments, as always, my inbox is open if you have any feedback on the story/characters/etc.
> 
> Also, I opened up a ko-fi account! Link’s in the profile. Donate or whatever if you want to chip in some coins for my daily cup of coffee! 
> 
> The life of an adult can truly be suffering without caffeine... 
> 
> (´皿｀;)

     Illuminated only by the flickering candlelight, you enter into your sleepy home in Vaniville Town. You neglect to turn on the lights, hoping your mother would not notice your late arrival home.  
  
     Strangely enough, you hadn’t needed to use your key to enter. The door to the little stucco place had stood slightly ajar, the faint scent of stargazer lilies gently wafting from the opening. Your mother had placed them on the living room table because they were one of your favorites. A cup of dark herbal tea sits next to the vase of flowers on the table, forgotten. The coaster it sits under is made of a tarnished silver, rust had eaten away at it from one too many tea spills. Balloons from your victory at the Pokémon League still float around the houseplants.  
  
     After setting down your things by the door, you see a stack of papers piled precariously high on the living room table, thick with envelopes and today’s mail. Before your mother can read it, you hastily make a move to grab an unopened envelope marked with: DEBT COLLECTION NOTICE. Your eyes quickly scan the letter.

 _To whom it may concern:_ _  
_ _  
_ _Despite our previous reminders, we still have not received any payment or answer from you regarding your overdue debt owed to Rocket Collection Agency. Therefore, we regret to inform you that if we do not obtain the payment of this aforementioned amount in full before next month, we will have no other alternatives but to undertake severe actions against you in order to retrieve the debt amount for our client. Please find the full debt amount and additional costs below._ _  
_

_How could this be?_ You think, wracking your head for answers. You had just paid off that loan last week—  
  
     Before you can delve further into the nature of your debt, your mother’s heavy, soft footsteps alert you to her presence.  
  
     “Is that you?” your mother now calls your name weakly from the bottom of the stairwell.  
  
     Pinching your brow together, you silently scold yourself for making her worry. Next time, you’d set three times the reminders on your Pokédex— the time got away so easily from you when you dug. Before hurrying over to her, you manage a smile, and pull the cover of your sleeves over your hands, and shove the letter in your pocket. You then rush over to her, and let her lean on you to realign her center of gravity. “Sorry.”  
  
     Grace looks at you sternly as you help her over to the dining room table, ‘sorry won’t be enough next time, young lady’ , but she then heaves a sigh of defeat. “I was so worried, honey... I thought you had been out all night again. Promise me that you won’t go out too late... Not even Professor Sycamore knows where you are. Please don’t worry me like that!”

     Your voice is tiny. “Okay, Mom.”  
  
     Weakly smiling at you, your mother then says, “Your mom would be so lost without you, so don’t lose your way home, okay?” Making her way to the stove, which was located in the house’s tiny live-in kitchen, she continues, “It’s late, but you can still have dinner. I made _coq au vin_ for Augustine, but he said he was too busy at his lab today to come over... I should have told him you would have come back in time for dinner, he always makes time to see you.”  
  
     You nod again, too tired to do otherwise. If this was her way of scolding you, it had little effect on you today. Odd.  
  
     “Did you schedule your PT appointment yet?” you then ask, eyeing your mother’s limp. It was worse than usual this evening.

     For a second, your mother’s face looks distinctly pained, but it’s gone in the next. She maintains her composure quite well, a given from a career that involved wrangling a cantankerous Rhyhorn. “It’s a work in progress, honey! Do you want me to make you a plate?”

     Although your stomach churns as the comforting scent of your mother’s homemade (she insists it’s authentic) chicken stew wafts through the air, you can’t bring yourself to eat. “Thanks, Mom… I’ll have something after I clean myself off.”

     After briefly pecking you on the cheek, she laughs and waves her nose. “You’re right, you stink! Go get washed up.”  
  
     Trudging up the stairs, you’re weighed down by your heavy thoughts. Stacks of bills and envelopes cast a shadow over your thoughts, and the crumpled letter burned a hole in your pocket. You also knew the dishes would have to be soaked soon, or the remnants of yesterday’s meal would be stuck on like drywall. You’d do it tomorrow.

     The furnishings of the bathroom are modest; the rare few vestiges of luxury left behind stand out from their surroundings— the antique glass green vase perched on the sink’s counter, the traces of sophisticated cologne lingering still on the hand towels, the milky-teal porcelain jewelry dish with a inlaid gold King’s Rock sitting atop it.  
  
     You then lather up some of the last slivers of a homemade soap made out of shea butter and lavender, taking care not to use it all. Harsh soap would roughen your mother’s hands. Working the suds into an old embroidered dish rag, you then furiously rub away the remnants of the day’s work from your body. Your face is sweaty and caked with dirt, your hands are raw from the effort.

     You then look into the mirror.  
  
     And a murderer stares back at you.

 

* * *

 

     When you still lived in Unova, when your mother wasn’t training for her own races or your father with his own Pokémon battling, the three of you would travel to a long abandoned homestead owned by your grandparents. Both of them were now long gone, but sneaking away with your parents on warm sunny days to ride amongst the Tauros owned by the neighboring ranchers was a spring tradition.

 _From afar, you watch Grace and a young girl on her lap, riding atop her Rhyhorn amongst the waving blades of grass and golden wheat._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Woo-hoo! Feel that breeze on your back, honey?” she shouts, looking down at the girl._ _  
_

_The sun, a bouncing ball of bright yellow shines bright in the sky; its warm and languid rays bear down on your face. The heat warms up clover blossoms, honeysuckle, Black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne’s Lace. Combee buzz wildly all around, carrying warm pollen back to their hives._ _  
_ _  
_ _She nods, smiling wildly, and spreads her arms out wide. “Dad!” Bouncing up and down in her seat, the girl shouts at a man far off in the distance, “Look at me go!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Your vision travels to a man standing by the porch of the house. He smiles at the two of them, but the line of his mouth skews too far to one side._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Don’t go too far, honey!” your father shouts. “Grace, be careful, won’t you?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“It’s all right, we’ll just be a sec!” She grins, and balances you on her lap. “Look at this great big lug, baby— would you believe he wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head?” She laughs, patting the horns on the Pokémon’s head. Your mother whoops and hollers as it playfully bucks her seat, and grunts. But it’s a gentle sound; Rhyhorn had become positively docile under your mother’s firm hand. “Ha-ha-ha! What a card! Guess Rhyhorn’s just really happy to see you today, baby!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Your mother then hears something like thunder in the distance, the rumble of heavy cloven foots on soft grass. The Tauros would be running wild today; the ranchers often liked to set them free to graze around midday._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I bet,” she says now with a wild, bright grin, “We can outrun those big guys!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Her Rhyhorn grunts, and Grace laughs. “Looks like he’s raring to go! What do you say, baby?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _You nod vehemently. When your mother got an idea in her head, a gleam in her eyes, you knew that there was no stopping her. You liked to think it ran in the family._ _  
_ _  
_ _With a start, the two of you then take off in a gallop._ _  
_ _  
_ _Effortlessly, she directs her Rhyhorn to weave in between the Tauros. They grunt and huff in anger, but she laughs and pays them no mind. She could outrun them, after all._ _  
_ _  
_ _You see, what Grace’s great appeal was to the common man and to the experienced fan, is that she rode her Rhyhorn with great passion and recklessness, most of the time foregoing personal protective equipment in favor of a more exciting show._ _  
_

_This came not without risks._ _  
_ _  
_ _Enraged, one of the Tauros breaks away from the herd and follows you, blazing anger in the whites of its eyes._ _  
_

_Your father is shouting something, but you can only see him waving his arms wildly, beckoning you two back._ _  
_ _  
_ _You then catch sight of the corpse of a gored steer on the plain._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Don’t look, baby,” Grace puts you on her shoulder, spurs her Rhyhorn on to gallop even faster, and begins to race. Every time you pass a dead Tauros, she switches you to another shoulder._ _  
_

_The wild Tauros then drives its horns into your Rhyhorn, it bellows in pain, and fiercely tackles the other Pokémon. This goes on for a time, both Pokémon trading blows, but your own Rhyhorn’s health was declining, its gait slows. Grace, fearing the well-being of her own Pokémon, tries to restrain her Rhyhorn._ _  
_ _  
_ _Too late to regain control, your mother hesitates, and the beast throws both you and her off its back. Going out of control, you instinctively cover your head as you tumble onto the grass, and feel a distinct, sharp pain when your hands and knees hit the ground._ _  
_ _  
_ _Aching from the impact, you curl up into a ball and whimper. You hear your mother’s panicked shouts above the heads of plump wheat, and you call out to her. She dashes to you, scoops you into her arms. Dazed from falling, you look up at her, unsure how to feel. The man then hurries over to your spot in the grass, and turns to your mother._ _  
_ _  
_ _“What’s wrong with you, Grace? Couldn’t you see that it was too dangerous?!”_ _  
_

_She could hardly speak. “I did it so many times before, I… It was just training…”_ _  
_ _  
_ _His voice is full of disdain. “It’s always training with you.” His eyes glance to you, and are pained._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Is your CAREER more important than our daughter, Grace?!” your father demands, a hoarse strain in his voice. You then realize your mother had let go of the reins after letting go of your hands. Grace shakes her head wildly and cradles you in her arms. They now seemed so fragile._

 _“How could you?! How could you—“_ _  
_ _  
_ _From your father’s furious expression, you understood the failure of your mother to act. But you wish they’d all stop crying. It wasn’t a big deal, your mother loved to race, you couldn’t blame her._ _  
_ _  
_ _Grace then dissolves into sobs, the wetness of her tears causing her sawdust-brown hair to fall limp and sticky at the sides of her face. She smooths your forehead, covers your cheek with kisses. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Why won’t you make this right, Grace? Why—“_ _  
_

_This vision then dissolves in a flurry of lily petals._ _  
_

_You now stand by the pond at Camphrier Castle. It is covered in huge lily pads, surrounded by spring blooms. Blue moor-grass and ferns grow along the pond’s edge, your feet make soft sounds as they trample underneath the dried sedge grasses soaked in dew. Fresh, crisp air like veils of mist part over the mirror-like water._ _  
_ _  
_ _Your ears pick up a panicked cry from deep inside the lake, you kneel by the pond’s edge, the same grass stains still on your clothing._ _  
_ _  
_ _A young woman, a little older than you is deep submerged in the water. Her skin has taken on a grey, sickly pallor, there’s a bloated appearance to her face and body and hands. She’s drowned._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I’ll get help—“ you say, but she frantically pulls at your arms. The lily pad vines wrap and pull you down._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Why won’t YOU help me?” she gurgles. The very act of speaking was a Herculean task, her body looks like mulch. “Remember…? You were so helpful to my coworkers…”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“I’m sorry, I-I don’t know who that is!” you say. The young woman peers at you, confused, then babbles of random numbers that could never be mistaken for someone’s name unless they were some sort of secret agent._ _  
_ _  
_ _Your confused expression doesn’t  clear. With an unhappy grimace, she then says softly, “No… you’re not the one I’m looking for.”_ _  
_

_Her voice then changes in pitch._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Why have you let me drown?” Lysandre asks you._ _  
_

_I’m sorry, you want to say._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Why?” he asks._ _  
_

_I needed to survive too, you want to say. But that’s all you had been doing. Surviving. You were good at that._ _  
_ _  
_ _On the pond’s surface, a royal purple Swanna kicks up a flurry of water. A feeling like drowning overtakes you as you swim in your sheets._ _  
_

_“Why won’t you make this right?”_ _  
__  
__“Make it right—“_ _  
_  
     After wrestling with your blankets, you wake up with your heartbeat, thudding in your ears, the sight of the falling, drowning girl curdling the blood in your brain. Fumbling about for your things, you then make your way to the bathroom, your fingers clench the gold of the King’s Rock on the countertop.

     You slip it onto your wrist. The weight of the lovely thing is heavy and comforting to bear. Your fingertip then traces the curve of your cheek from your tear-duct to your jawline.

     Dry as ever.  
  
     You haven’t cried yet. There hasn’t been any time to.

 

* * *

  
  
     Roughly a decade ago, before the life you knew had been torn to shreds, before your mother’s accident and hiatus from Rhyhorn riding, your family’s subsequent descent into drudgery, and all such terribly sad matters, you, your mother and your father had all been one happy, healthy Unovan family. The bills had always been paid, there was always a hot meal on the table, always a roof over your head.  
  
     The way that your mother had recounted the story had changed depending on her mood, but the core details had remained the same: your parents had met at one of Grace’s races, in which she had struck him on accident. Immediately smitten (or temporarily out of his mind from the head trauma) he had asked her out on the spot! And the rest was history.  
  
     Your father and your mother had been kindred spirits, both unable to settle down in one place for long, both with active careers that often demanded the two of them to go for long periods of time without seeing one another.  
  
     Even so, even when his long stretches of absence had gone on for longer than the usual, he would always have some scrap, some remnants of his presence in your life, a letter here and there, a few checks sent through snail mail to help cover the cost of living.  
  
     When you had been nearly ten, the evening of your mother’s accident, your father had left to traverse the world, promising to return after he had made it big as the greatest Pokémon Trainer of all time. Despite your protests, he maintained your mother’s career would no longer be able to support the bills.  
  
     However, ever since that day of your mother’s accident, he had never returned. No letters had yet come. No money for the house had ever arrived. Worse than the pain of his absence, however, was that neither of you had imagined your father would decide to leave your family that day.  
  
     And say good-bye with the plan to never return.  
  
     Grace had then been left to raise you mostly by herself. This was hard on your mother, especially considering she was more at home on a racetrack, running free with the Rhyhorn, and detested domestic duties of any sort. Even still, she made the best effort she could, and often worked in the dark until her hands became sore, doing some odd job.  
  
     “Are we _poor,_ Mom?” you had once asked while Grace was making a simple dinner of bread and scrambled eggs, before you were old enough to know better than to ask such questions.  
  
     Her pained expression told you enough. The scramble sits in the pan, curdling away. “Money’s tight, but we get by all right, don’t we?” she had said. You had nodded and that had brought a few moments of peace. But the eggs had become rubbery.  
  
     So when your mother passed a few thin bills into your hand after you told her of Sycamore’s subsequent bequeathal of a Pokédex and a rare Pokémon, you knew better than to ask for any more. You would make sure she would never again suffer the shame of feeling poor.  
  
      Still, you can’t help but be self-conscious in front of others, especially in front of…  
  
     Lysandre. And why shouldn’t you have been? At first glance, one would have thought the man lived well.

     “So, how’d YOU get your Holocaster?” Shauna elbows you. “Monsieur Lysandre’s asking!”  
  
     At this part in your journey, you had progressed rather slowly; you juggled your part-time work at Hotel Richissime with your Pokémon training. You had just recovered from working late. The midnight shift was unforgiving.  
  
     You wipe your eyes clean of all sleep. “Sorry…”  
  
     “We were just all talking about how we got our Holocaster!” Calem laughs. “My dad bought me one for my 10th birthday.”

     Your friends chime in with how they had received their Holocasters, all from some relative or parent who had the financial good fortune to purchase such an expensive device. You say nothing and stare at the ground.

     “Didn’t you know? Lysandre here is the inventor of the Holocaster.” Trevor murmurs. “He must be a very intelligent man.”  
  
     You look up, and see this peculiar older man in his dark colored coat and patent leather shoes, standing now by Dexio and Sina’s side. Wearing a thick black suit lined with flame red fur trim, Lysandre stands out from his surroundings and the other people who stand beside him; they all wear pale colored clothes.  
  
     His hair stands up in a large tuft of red, but the real flame was in his eyes. Under the great shelves of his thick brows held pale fire.

     You shudder.  
  
     “Have you no Holocaster?” Lysandre asks you now. Your friends turn to look at you; you resent his having brought the subject up. You then make up some excuse of having left it at home.    
  
     No doubt eyeing your attire, Lysandre then says: “How wonderful! It is a wonderful thing, indeed!” he announces to you all, but his eyes are on Calem. “You are one of the chosen ones.” There is a note of pride in his tone, the tone of someone pleased to speak with a person of the same social standing as themselves, and a bitter taste coats the inside of your mouth. This chalky taste settles like a cloud over your thoughts; you don’t remember much more than his name. After introducing himself, he looks off at something far-away.  
  
     “Well, I’ll be off. Please give Professor Sycamore my best. My desire... it is for a more beautiful world!”  
  
     You scoff to yourself. Your desire was only to find another way to place hot food on the table and support your household. After all, your mother would be pushing into her forties by the end of this year, and it was becoming harder and harder for her to walk. This man and his platitudes held no particular significance for you; his words flew in the face of his expensive suit and soft leather shoes.

     Lysandre pauses temporarily by your side.  
  
     “No, no, no… _People_ _the likes of you_ have a Pokédex?” he murmurs, apparently finding something wanting in the way of your appearance. “How… how could this be?”  
  
      _Too bad for you,_ you think, but your resentment only grows, and you do not wish him _adieu._ _  
_  
     To wash the bitter taste from your mouth, after your group disperses out into the warm Lumiose sun, you and the younger girl Shauna decide on traveling to a small cafe for some pastry.  
  
     Shauna grins. “Looks like someone’s in a good mood today!”  
  
     The younger girl then looks at you as if to explain yourself, but you shake your head, smile and offer no explanation for your good mood. It’s not likely Shauna would understand the simple happiness of the sound of loose change jingling in your pocket.  
  
     But as you walk, your happiness lessens a bit— because with this money came your mother’s implicit recognizance of your independence, and the understanding you would help to support your family and pay The Bills (the distinction warranted because of how often this pair of words came out of your mother’s mouth).

     “Wasn’t he a strange man?” she asks you, and you agree. “Professor Sycamore has all types of friends…”  
  
     She adds, somewhat conspiratorial, “But I hope that he doesn’t have any _girlfriends!”_ _  
_  
     You smile and offer no comment.  
  
     The hustle and bustle of Cafe Soleil early in the morning is very reassuring to see. Peering inside, you see it’s a splendid establishment. Lines of people were already starting to form at the pastry cases, several others chat animatedly at the espresso bar. There is an aroma in the air of fresh batches of pastries being brought out, not unlike smelling fresh laundry, but it’s warmer and more rich. The clamor of waiters and customers alike give the impression that the café teemed with life.

     The two of you shuffle forward to ogle the case. A variety of decadent pastries and breads line the shelves, glistening with a just-baked golden brown shine. Their insides are filled with decadent _crème fraiche_ and custards, most labeled with an exorbitant price tag.

     "Wow! I've never seen so many different pastries in one _patisserie_ before," your new friend, Shauna exclaims. "We should try ALL of them and stuff our faces!"

     However, because of the frenetic morning rush of patrons, you’re soon separated from your friend, and can’t find her or her bouncy pigtails in the chaos.

     You remember the same strange and intimidating lion-like man with a fiery orange-red mane of hair staring down at you, chestnut-black coffee in one hand, plain butter croissant in the other. His cello-like, baritone voice startles you out of your thoughts. In lieu of an introduction or polite greeting, Lysandre then says:

     “With that odd gaze, had I not known you were Sycamore’s pupil, you would strike me as a tourist. Am I mistaken?"

 _Bonjour to you too, monsieur,_ you’d like to say, but you remember the advice of your parents about talking to strangers and the like. And he definitely _was_ strange.  
  
     Somewhat defensively, you answer that you aren’t, and attempt to place an order in French.  
  
     You could just imagine it, the comforting scent of the soft, flaky pastries in the cardboard box; the warm smile you would be rewarded with once you presented your mother with a plate of open-faced croissants.  
  
     Unfortunately for you, however, your French was so bad you might have spoken perfectly into a paper bag with a larger chance of success.     

     The older man laughs, and points out his own order. Following his lead, you then receive your own order, with your frantic pointing and wild gesturing, Shauna rejoining you not long after. The two of you take a seat at the bar, your order in hand.

     After you’ve gotten settled, she asks you:  
  
     “Do you like Professor Sycamore?” she asks you once you’ve taken your seat. You look at her strangely, and she sighs with relief. “ _Whew…!_ You know, when Calem said there was going to be another girl joining our group, I got nervous…”

     Apparently satisfied that you were not going to be her romantic rival, Shauna then turns her attentions to her _pain au chocolat,_ and the two of you whittle away the time with small bites from your pastries and cardboard cups of _chocolat chaud._ You learn she had grown up in Kalos all her life, had led a life of relative ease in the countryside before her Pokémon journey had started. The young girl was easy enough to get along with, but you had the feeling she expected something from you, due to your status as Grace’s daughter.

     A waiter brings you the cheque after it seems you’ve been there a good long while, his eyes had been on you the entire time the two of you spoke. You brush it off. Many of the waiters had started to give you looks, anyhow, you were taking up valuable cafe space for pastries that cost no more than a couple of Pokédollars. After paying for your orders, before you depart, you then tell Shauna that you’re going to buy some bread for your mother, and she walks with you to the cashier.

     Bringing out your wallet, you say to the cashier, “I’d like two baguettes, _s’il vous plait.”_ _  
_  
     “That will be 20 €.” the cashier says, and you open your wallet to pay. 

     It’s empty.  
  
     You count and recount the cost of the croissant. This wasn’t right, you had specifically calculated the cost of your modest croissant and coffee so that you would have enough to pay for your equipment and a few pieces of bread besides.  
  
     “I’ll meet you up ahead,” Shauna says, but the pink flush on her cheeks clearly displayed her embarrassment. You nod, but your cheeks are burning too.

     Outside the cafe, you frantically count and recount your change. _Where is it? Where is it?_ _  
_  
     But the money was gone. Completely gone. The reasonable amount of disposable income you were once in possession of had vanished.  
  
     You break into a cold sweat.  
  
      _The waiter hadn’t given you back your change._  

     After watching the waiter laugh with his friends (probably at your expense), you see the boy duck outside, and make haste to follow him.  
**  
** You corner him in an back alley. It is dark. There is no street-light.

     You whirl him around. “You took my money,” you say in a soft voice.

     He ignores you. You then grab a fistful of his expensive clothing with one hand.  
**  
**      The boy now scoffs. “And w-what if I did? I’m trying to become a distinguished member of Team Flare here,” he says. “Don’t get in the way, you pest!”  
  
     Instead of gracing you with a Pokémon battle, he has his Pokémon blast you with a powerful fire attack. You move to the side quickly, but part of your clothes are singed from the fire.  
  
     You remember how hard it had been to pick out a matching outfit from the thrift store. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT SKIRT COST?” you yell, getting up in his face. “DO YOU?”  
  
     “Hmph! Who cares? I say, that is a blessing in disguise; those clothes looked SO cheap—“  
  
     So. Cheap.  
  
     _People the likes of you—_ _  
_

     You twist his wrist inward with one hand, and lean in. If he wasn’t going to fight fair, neither were you.

     You bare your teeth at him. “Give. Me. Back. My. Money.”

     “M-Mongrel, have you no _shame?!_ Unhand me!”  
  
     You hold fast to his wrist and twist it even tighter. Because of your circumstances, you had become a daughter your mother had never raised you to be, a daughter that skulked about in dark alleys, resented others for their good fortunes, and distanced herself from people.

     “J-just buy another one—“

     But even if you were no great daughter, and even less so of a trainer, you did know how to _fight._ _  
_  
     Heavily panting, you then clench your left hand into one hot, angry fist.  
  
     And fight you did.  
  
     Suddenly, as if possessed, you’re upon him, a wild beast of raining blows and kicks on his head. He cries out in surprise first, then pain, as the flurry of blows continues.

     After he’s sufficiently beaten, the boy holds out the coins he had been so tightly clenching in his hands. “H-Here’s the money! I swear, my parents will hear of this—“  
  
     With a triumphant laugh, you snatch the coins out of the boy’s hand.  
  
     The boy sputters:

     “S-Some girl you are! Are you even _human?!”_ _  
_

     After shoving the money into your pocket, you merely grin at him in response. You may not have been human, but you were fierce, fast, and crossing you would only lead to a multitude of troubles.  
  
     Terrified, the boy then dashes off.

     The sound of laughter echoes through the silence. You whirl around, and feeling not unlike a wounded Deerling, immediately fold your arms across your chest.

     Another bother. The good _monsieur_ Lysandre had been watching you and your very undignified display.

     “Why, your clothes have been torn to shreds, _mademoiselle!”_ Lysandre then remarks, chuckling a bit, and your face grows hot with embarrassment. You clutch your canvas purse closer to your body, as if it were a iron shield that might protect you from this hulking beast of a man.

     Unsure of exactly how much he had seen, you would give away nothing. A barb of defensiveness juts out from your voice. “That’s _none_ of your business!”

     He pauses, taking a moment to digest this reply, mulling it over in his head like a big cat deciding if you were his next meal. _“Mademoiselle_ , I did not mean to offend," the lion rumbles. His voice has a peculiar intonation, you would later find it was because of his Lumiosian accent. Unlike Professor Sycamore’s own lilting tone of speech, this man’s voice is slow, his tone grave. _“Êtes vous affamé?"_ _  
_  
      _Are you hungry?_ _  
_

     Usually, your hurt pride would be weaker than your empty stomach, and you briefly feel a twinge of your guilty conscience as you remember how glad your mother would be to have some fresh bread on the table. But the condescension of this man’s voice, the pity that swam in his pale eyes as he spoke, angered you, and you wanted to show him that if nothing else, you could still afford the luxury of your pride. You still remember his tone as he had said: _people the likes of you._ _  
_  
      And your French may have been atrocious, but you were fairly confident you wouldn’t need a translator for _that._

     “Much less than you,” you retort, clutching the shreds of your clothing together as if they were the last rags of your dignity.  
  
     Astonished, Lysandre gives a little bemused scoff. “And what have I done to warrant being talked to in such a way?”  
  
      _You and your stupidly expensive suit and hair and dreams,_ you think, but your mouth seals into a tight line.

     “Old men like you are so pretentious,” you say now to him, narrowing your eyes. The older man was well-kempt and clearly took pride in his appearance, so you hoped your words would sting. Contrary to your hopes, Lysandre’s not fazed by the insult but rather amused. No one’s probably ever called _him_ old. He appeared to be around Professor Sycamore’s age, approximately mid thirties.  
  
    He’s beside himself. _“Pretentious!_ I would have you explain yourself, but I fear my words are lost on you. I would only have you now apologize for your disrespect.”  
  
     This not being a hill you would prefer to die on, you say, “But of course, _monsieur_ ,” giving a mock curtsy. “I am very sorry.” Judging from the wire-thin line that his mouth now forms, your sarcasm is not lost on him.    
  
     After dusting yourself off, you notice your “new” clothes now had so many tears, and smelled ever-so-strongly of burning fabric, courtesy of that jerk at the cafe, and you just knew your new friends would remark on them. You then start off in the direction of the Pokémon Center.  
  
     “Wild girl! I might know your name,” Lysandre says now, calling out after you. You stall a bit.  
  
     “Might is right,” you then say over your shoulder, and leave him there.

 

* * *

  
     In the sweltering heat of the Hotel Richissime kitchen, you wipe the sweat from your brow, and narrow your eyes to see past the glare of the harsh kitchen lights. You’re working with a massive headache, the kind that makes you squint because the light hurts your eyes. The sign _“La propreté conduit à la sainteté!”_ hangs overhead, you push your palm into the hot, sudsy water.

     Your domain during these peak times of service were that of the dishwasher, and how you detested it. Hotel Richissime’s activity never quieted; it was located in the heart of Lumiose City, on a premier location on the _Rue St. Honore_ with boutique stores and sightseeing attractions alike only walking distance away. The hotel was blessed with more than 99 luxury rooms and 40 suites.  
  
     Your hands ache. During today’s morning shift, it seemed as if every single guest of the hotel had come to breakfast.  
  
     As you finish clearing the seemingly endless stack of dirty dishes away, a young man shouts, _“Excusez-moi!_ Please, coming through.” Atop his narrow shoulders is a large black platter with even more dishes stacked on it. Your heart sinks.

     “Sorry,” the young man Stew says as he unloads more porcelain dishes into the sink. Sweat beads his forehead. “It’s the rush from the continental breakfast crowd, you know. It’ll calm down soon, I think.”  
  
      _Why did it seem like every tourist in Lumiose City ate there at the buffet at once, then?_ You smile and tell him to pay no mind to it. It wasn’t his fault, after all. Stew always tried his best. He was a well-behaved young man, a few years your junior, a city boy who wished to someday live a life of ease in the Kalos countryside, but could only find employment in the hotel.

     Stew then frowns. “Why do you still work here?”  
  
      _I don’t even know._ “Sushi High Roller’s booked?” you offer flippantly; he laughs.

     “Aren’t they always?” he says amicably. “I can’t understand it. At this rate, you’d need to be royalty to pay for the _hors d'oeuvres—“_ _  
_  
     A older woman, dressed in a trim, figure hugging wool dress then ducks her head into the kitchen to interrupt your gossiping. _“Avez-vous été élevé dans la rue?!”_ she says sharply to Stew. His pale face turns red. Gesturing to the mess of plates that had just been brought in, she then snaps, _“Le vieux dicton, "la propreté est proche de la sainteté" s'applique ici aussi! Entretenez votre maison comme si vous attendiez la venue de Dieu à tout moment!”_ _  
_  
     Not to be forgotten for once, she then turns her attentions to you. “Happy, clean hands make happy workers!” your manager reminds you with a sappy sweet smile, eyeing your hands. You haven’t the heart to tell her the discoloration on them isn’t dirt.  
  
     But you were lucky; Stew and the other employees got the worst of her scolding, probably because she had a wider vocabulary in French rather than in English. You weren’t scrubbing floors or anything (you hadn’t been stuck with that duty since your pre-Champion days), but instead relegated to dish duty, changing bed linens, and attempting to scrub stains out of laundry.

     You busy yourself with cleaning away more of the fine cutlery and china, all the while sneaking some of the leftovers into a translucent plastic bag. Some of the food was still good enough to eat, but most patrons of the hotel would not be seen eating leftovers. A plump dinner roll, remnants of stew that has some good pieces of meat in it, a nibbled danish, all of these things find their way into your bag.  
  
     Only a few more hours until it was dark, and Hotel Richissime would release you from its clutches. You count down the minutes on the clock on the wall, conspicuously hidden by a bunch of houseplants.  
  
      _“Mademoiselle—“_ You think you’re about to hear your manager scold you for taking leftover food, but Lysandre says your name again from behind you.

     You turn your head and no one’s there.

 

* * *

    
  
     After receiving your pay for the day’s labor at the hotel, you head into a back alley of the city and uncrumple the letter in your pocket. You compare the amount of money due to the wages from the day’s labor (unceremoniously thrust into your palms, you might add), spreading apart the fistful of bills in your hands. You nearly cry out in frustration.

     It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.  
  
     In order to afford the “small” luxury of living in Kalos, as well as your mother’s ever increasing medical bills, you had taken out a loan for some money. It was just until cases at the Looker Bureau picked up again, and you could receive a stable income. The Kalos Championship title did not pay out an annual stipend unlike other regions, Alola being one of them.  
  
     You shudder, and sling your bag over your shoulders. How nice would it be to be someplace warm.  
  
     But you shake out all doubts from your mind. This was worth it. It was worth it, because one parent had already departed from your life, and you couldn’t risk another leaving, no matter the cost. You remember how unhappy she had been in the hospital.  
  
     Due to your youth and inconsistent sources of income, many banks would not incur the risk of lending such a large sum of money to you, sick mother’s hospital bills or no.

     Letter in hand, you sit on the curb of the sidewalk of a deserted Lumiose street, and call the number on the letter, your heart pounding in your chest all the while.  
  
     There is a quiet click of the receiver, and a woman with a clearly artificial Kalos accent answers. It’s too odd, like she’s pretending to be more sophisticated than she was. “Rocket Collection Agency. We give you cash for quick loans! How can I assist you this evening?”

     You tell her of your concerns regarding your debt, and give her the details of your account and the letter. The silence is then punctuated by the faint click-clack of fingers on a keyboard.  
  
      A chirpy tone comes into her voice that doesn’t suit her adopted accent. “Okay... I see you have a total payment due for €85,000, minimum payment €20,000. How can I assist you to clear up your outstanding balance?” she asks.  
  
     €85,000?! That was the original amount of money you had borrowed! “How can that be?” you ask. “There were 5 payments made on this account, with one being made only last week...”  
  
     More clicking of keys. “I am not seeing that,” she says after a time.  
  
     You keep your voice level. “Payment was automatically withdrawn from my bank account every two weeks.”  
  
     “Oh, I see.” She says, clearing her throat. “ _Mademoiselle_ , that was just the fee to keep your outstanding balance intact with us.”  
  
      _What?_ “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

     She explains with a huff, “If you had further examined the contract you had filled out with us, you would have understood that the automatic payment taken out of your account every month was simply the charge to renew your loan.”  
  
     “If you wish to get rid of the outstanding balance, you will have to pay the principal amount in full, plus the accrued interest—“  
  
     “You’re saying that I still owe the money?”  
  
     “ _Because_ you failed to pay the loan off in full during your first pay period,” she explains, “the loan will be renewed every two weeks. You have not paid off any of the balance on your principal.”  
  
     “I can’t pay this all off in one full payment…!” you cry in a panic. “You’ve already received the money—“  
  
     “Miss, if you do not pay off the loan in one full payment, fees will be taken out of your account to roll the loan over and renew it.”  
  
     “I can’t pay this! I won’t—“  
  
     “Miss, failure to pay your balance will be construed as a deliberate attempt to evade this debt.”  
  
_“And there will be consequences.”_ _  
_  
     A chill runs down your spine. _No._ “Please don’t do anything…! I’ll get the money, I swear. What options do I have for payment?”

     “There are several options that our clients have taken to resolve their outstanding balance with our company,” she says promptly, then continues, “Miss, if you have another credit card, it may offer the option of a cash advance, which allows you to take out cash against your card’s credit limit—“

     That wasn’t an option. Your credit was awful.  
  
     “That’s not possible.” you say quietly, and you hear her sigh from the end of the receiver. The woman then runs the gamut of other options you could take, but you quickly exhaust the other options she had presented with your obstinate replies.

     Exasperated, the woman finally drops her affected accent and says, “Do you know _anywhere_ you can get a few Pokédollars on short notice? Perhaps by donating plasma or—“  
  
      You hang up.

 

* * *

  
     
     You hang your head in your hands briefly, and shake your head. Plasma?! Was she _insane?_ Yes, blood plasma could be donated twice per week, but most facilities pay between €20 and €50 for a sample, and you were too weak and too hungry to afford to donate plasma.  
  
     Food. You pat the plastic bag next to you. Your head would be clearer with some food in your stomach.

     After you turn on your Holocaster for light, you then pick at the food you had collected in your plastic bag. A bad habit to go rummaging for food off of other diners’ plates, you knew that, but you couldn’t help it. You chew on the stale dinner roll and try not to gag. Its unblemished surface had been a facade for the hard, unforgivingly dry taste within. You wash it down with a cheap espresso.

     To take the stale taste out of the food, you look through the news feed of your Holocaster. Aside from yesterday’s news of the new Alolan Champion, there’s no real story of interest, your eyes glaze over at the reports of alternative energy company stock price fluctuation and a new detective TV special. His face looks oddly familiar.

     After some time has passed, and the sound of the horns and the soft footsteps in the Lumiose streets have quieted with the onset of nightfall, your Holocaster buzzes.

     A girl with two thickly bound pigtails and lightly tanned skin comes up on the display. Despite her being a couple of years younger than yourself, her face has the familiar appearance of one perpetually hardened from living in the streets.

     _Hey. How're you doing?_

_You’re off in Geosenge Town again, aren’t you? Still no luck on my end… But Mimi and I are trying the best we can, so don’t lose faith!_

_We've got no new cases in the Looker Bureau today… Those jerks over at the International Police won’t let me talk to Mister Looker. Said he’s off on assignment in Alola, or something weird. They told me that he wanted to give us this number, 031601. Does it mean anything to you?_

_Anyways, listen… The same number that’s been calling the Bureau called again yesterday. Could you call this number today, when you get the chance?_

   _Thank you. And good-bye!_

     Your eyes travel to more of the recorded messages, but quickly fart away when the letter L comes up onto the screen. You kill the screen almost instantaneously— _why do you want to be looking through old messages, you fool?_ _  
__  
_    You don’t want to imagine it, the familiar way that he would peer curiously at the display, lift it up to meet his blue-hued gaze, his eyes darting from side to side as he scanned the words on the screen.  
  
     You shake your head. You have to stop thinking and get yourself under control.

     After you look up the source of the phone number, your blood runs cold. It was from the Kiloude City Correctional Facility. The six digit number Looker had given you corresponded to a prisoner’s identification code. 

     To the south, the Kiloude City Correctional Facility acted as a hub that connected one to the various institutions for sentenced prisoners, such as the short-stay prisons, which held suspects awaiting trial, and prisoners condemned to a sentence less than two years. Then, there were the central prisons, or _Maison centrale_ , which were for the most dangerous individuals, to be kept segregated from other inmates. Finally, there was the detention centre, which were for individuals showing a genuine desire for social rehabilitation. This facility included Kalos’s largest prison, the _Maison d'arrêt de Fleury Mérogis._

     “ _Bonjour…_ ” you begin to say, but a strident voice barks, “Kiloude City Correctional Facility! State your name, prisoner identification number and institutional facility of interest!”  
  
     You wince. You hadn’t even been worth a hearty _bonjour_ or greeting. But your mood at being snapped at was short lived; you knew Kalos prisons overflowed with prisoners, and the penitentiary personnel understaffed.

     Making your best guess, you then say hesitantly, “I’m calling concerning prisoner 031601. Has he had his one phone call for the day?”

     “He has not! Who is this?” the person on the other line demands, and you tell them your name. “You are calling concerning prisoner 031601?” he asks. You answer in the affirmative.

     “You are willing to pay the cost of calling?” he asks, skeptical, then going on to state, “I ask because another _mademoiselle_ attempted to contact this prisoner, but she was unaware of the fees associated with calling a convict—“

     “Yes,”  you say immediately, but can’t help the hesitant smile that spreads across your face. Famous cheapskate that Emma was. You’d pay for the call later, but it was important that you speak to him now.  
  
     The man on the other end of the line breathes out, apparently relieved you were not going to waste his time by hanging up or begging for charity. “All right. To which facility will the call be placed?”

     “I want to put a message through to the _Maison d'arrêt d-de Fleury Mérogis,”_ you say, hands shaking, the words a practiced mouthful. Despite Lysandre’s many attempts to teach you the Kalos  language on several occasions, it still seemed too foreign to you. “Tell... tell prisoner 031601…. tell Doctor Xerosic that it’s Emma’s friend. And she wants to speak with him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kalos Glossary of Terms
> 
> adieu: goodbye, farewell
> 
> “Avez-vous été élevé dans la rue?!” : “Were you raised on the street?!”
> 
> baguette: a long, narrow loaf of French bread.
> 
> bonjour: hello
> 
> coq au vin: Kalos dish of chicken braised with wine, lardons, mushrooms, optionally garlic. Most often cooked with an old rooster.
> 
> croissant: buttery, flaky, viennoiserie pastry named for its crescent shape. croissants and other viennoiserie are made of a layered yeast-leavened dough.
> 
> cremé fraiche: a type of thick cream made from heavy cream with the addition of buttermilk, sour cream, or yogurt.
> 
> Êtes vous affamé?: Are you hungry?
> 
> Excusez-moi!: Pardon me!
> 
> “La propreté conduit à la sainteté!”: “Cleanliness leads to holiness!”
> 
> “Le vieux dicton, "la propreté est proche de la sainteté" s'applique ici aussi! Entretenez votre maison comme si vous attendiez la venue de Dieu à tout moment!”: “The old dictum, "cleanliness is next to Godliness" applies here too! Maintain your home as though you are  
> expecting God to visit you at any time!”
> 
> Mademoiselle: Miss
> 
> Maison d'arrêt de Fleury Mérogis: a prison in France, located in the town of Fleury-Mérogis, in the southern suburbs of Lumiose City. With more than 4,100 prisoners, it is the largest prison in the region.
> 
> Maison centrale: (lit.) central prison
> 
> monsieur: Mister
> 
> s’il vous plait: please
> 
> (Also— I know that some people who follow this story also read Backpfeifengesicht, so this is just to say that there probably won’t be an update this month for that story. Sorry! (_　_|||) )


End file.
